The Guest is a Menace
by The Darkness Factor
Summary: Five times a Russian assassin crashes at Sharon Carter's place, and the one time she crashes at Natasha's.


**A/N:** This is my sort-of sequel to Drip (That's the Sound of Your Ledger). It's very Sharon-centric, but Natasha is heavily featured as well. I hope that you all enjoy it!

Also, there will be other stories in this universe. Don't worry.

* * *

I.

Sharon's apartment was many things— small, clean, practical, sterile, sparsely decorated, impersonal… the list went on. She grew up in a home where her parents had hoarded their possessions, refusing to dispose of even the most useless of objects. It had driven her nothing short of crazy, fueling her vow to move out and keep a neat, orderly living space for herself. It would be perfect. It would be nothing more or less than she needed.

Of course, there were a few little things that she kept that looked glaringly out of place. A photo of her and Natasha at Coney Island. A vintage set of silverware that Aunt Peggy sent her when she got her own apartment ('Darling, you can't honestly tell me you want to spend money on new silverware— no, I do not believe that your aesthetic means _that_ much to you,' which was true; it didn't). A small air plant that she'd bought along with Natasha when they decided to go on a garden center shopping spree together— was there a pattern in all of this?

The pattern, Sharon was later forced to conclude, was that Natasha had slotted herself into her life as 'one of the most important people' with alarming speed. More than half the time, her outings were with Natasha. Even then, those outings were for recreational purposes. Her missions for Stark were almost always solo, and she often recoiled at the thought of getting Natasha involved in work. There was something in her that balked at the idea.

(Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Natasha was an Avenger now, and Sharon was still a spy? She knew that Natasha would always see them as being on equal footing, but sometimes she had trouble believing that herself.)

At any rate, Sharon's lack of personal items had to do with the fact that she used her apartment for two things: eating and sleeping. She knew that there were plenty of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents out there who felt the same way, but her brother used to tell her that he had trouble falling asleep in her guest room because it was 'too bare'. Apparently a lot of people were discomfited by the absence of personality in Sharon's apartment.

She didn't care. Much.

Tonight, she spooned lentil soup into her mouth and checked online for any new updates on the Avengers. Natasha had warned her about some kind of big mission they were going on in New Delhi, but hadn't said much more than that (and here she had Exhibit A of Natasha also being secretive about her work, so she didn't feel as bad about not sharing). Nothing came up on Google, no matter how many keywords she searched, so Maria was as competent as ever.

She was just about to get herself a glass of water when there was a knock at the door.

Sharon paused. She made a point of telling her relatives that they should call her a few days in advance before coming over, and they'd always been pretty good about accommodating her (even her brother). An itch crawled up her spine, prompting her to make her way over to where she had her gun stashed beneath the kitchen table.

The knock came again, more insistent this time, so Sharon cursed and hurried over to the door, deciding that she could do without the extra weapon. A quick look through the peephole surprised her.

"Nat?" she called through the door.

"Yeah." Her voice was strained.

Sharon undid her two extra locks and pulled the door open to reveal Natasha Romanoff, in full Avengers regalia, with an expression that Sharon would normally associate with constipation. She moved inside wordlessly, collapsing on the couch and burying her face in the arm of it.

"Where are you injured?" Sharon asked.

Without moving, Natasha answered. "Mmph. Fractured fibula. Bruised ribs. Not much more than that."

"So, instead of staying at Stark Tower— which has world-class medical facilities, by the way— you decided to come to my apartment." Sharon folded her arms. "With a broken leg."

"…yes?"

Sharon knew that there was more to it, and that Natasha would explain eventually, so for now she went back into the kitchen and grabbed the ice pack she kept in the freezer. Natasha was sitting up when she got back, so she handed her the pack. "You can prop up your leg if you want."

Natasha did so, wincing a bit as she pressed the ice pack gingerly to the break. "It's a clean break," she promised. "I wouldn't have come if it weren't."

"Okay." Sharon accepted that for now. "You hungry or anything? I wasn't expecting you, but I have some extra food."

"No, thanks."

This was new, for the both of them. Spending time together usually entailed them both staying on the go. Either Sharon or Natasha was able to think of something new to do, so that they wouldn't have to spend time idling. There had been a few nights where Natasha showed up with a bottle of wine and slept on her couch (she didn't seem to be aware that Sharon had a guest room) but the most recent of those had been a while ago.

Natasha had once explained to Sharon that it was all a part of her post-file-dump resolution: make a friend, and spend time with that friend. Go out more. See things she wouldn't have been allowed to see, back in the Red Room. Sharon obliged her because she was never one to go out much before S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, but she genuinely enjoyed spending time with Natasha on their little adventures through New York.

She'd never seen Natasha in her tac suit— not in person, anyway. And yet there she was, slumped on Sharon's couch.

Natasha was the one to break the silence first.

"I didn't know you kept the picture."

She nodded at the one on the coffee table. The only one that Sharon had in her possession.

"It was pure gold, how could I not?" She grinned at Natasha, who returned it. They'd both gotten face paint done; Natasha was sticking her tongue out at the camera. She didn't know why it was so easy to be a little more open when she was around Natasha; it probably should have bothered her more.

It was an hour before Natasha elaborated on her reason for being there.

"I didn't want to sleep at the Tower," she admitted. "It's fine most nights, but after this mission it just… wasn't. I felt claustrophobic. Like I couldn't get away from everyone, no matter how much I wanted to. Even when I was in my apartment, I knew that Jarvis was there."

Sharon raised an eyebrow. "I thought that you and Jarvis liked to gang up on Tony."

"It's nothing against him, or anyone," Natasha said. "Just…"

She fell silent, but Sharon only nodded. She knew, all too well, that sometimes there just wasn't an explanation.

She eventually put on a Netflix show that she thought Natasha would like (she went for Star Trek: The Next Generation) and then went about setting up the guest room. There wasn't much to do; she always had a clean set of sheet on the bed, so the only thing she had to do was put a comforter on the bed and get a pillow. By the time she was finished with that, however, she came back into the living room to find Natasha passed out on her couch.

Damn it.

Sharon wasn't above a little bit of grumbling, but she still tugged the blanket off the guest room bed and draped it over Natasha's form. She took the ice pack off of her leg; after a moment of deliberation, she resolved to keep icing it every other twenty minutes. She didn't much feel like sleeping now, anyway.

The ordinary bystander might have looked in on the two of them, and found it creepy that Sharon was sitting in the darkness of her living room as the minutes ticked by, either playing Angry Birds on her phone or keeping an eye on Natasha (and, occasionally, carefully replacing the ice pack). Natasha didn't so much as shift during the night; the enormity of the Natasha's trust in her would strike her later, but at that moment Sharon didn't even give it any thought.

She was not, however, about to extend her hospitality by cooking in the morning. Natasha seemed to understand this, and when Sharon asked, "So what do you want me to get for breakfast?" she requested, "Pop tarts."

And so, that morning, Sharon Carter shared a box of Pop Tarts with the Black Widow.

That seemed like a good time for one of her, "What is my life?" moments.

* * *

II.

Sharon could barely see straight the next time she came home; her mission to Dubai really did a number on her (involving a firefight in Stark's vacation house and a ten-mile trek to the nearest city). So she almost collapsed onto the couch, but stopped herself when she remembered that she hadn't eaten in the last thirty hours. A can of soup sounded pretty good right then.

Even as exhausted as she was, Sharon apparently had a little bit of adrenaline in her.

" _Fuck_!" she shouted, ducking behind the counter in anticipation of an imaginary bullet. She registered her unexpected visitor's face a moment later and swore again, peering out from behind the counter to glare.

"Jesus," Barnes grumbled. "Pretty sure you scared me more than I scared you."

"You're the Winter Soldier," Sharon said, standing up and making her way over to her fridge. "You have no excuse."

"Guess not," he admitted. Sharon didn't appreciate the way he was staring at her back, like he was trying to dissect her, but she said nothing on the subject. Natasha had waited almost a month after meeting her to stop doing that.

Barnes didn't say anything while she heated up her dinner, nor did he speak while she ate, wincing when the first mouthful made her want to throw up. In contrast to her battered appearance, he actually looked well-put-together for a brainwashed assassin who was supposed to be on the run. She half-debated texting Natasha about his presence, but she decided that she could handle this one on her own.

"I'm guessing there's a reason why you broke into my apartment," she said.

Barnes pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, you could say that." He sighed. "Look, I barely know you, and I know it's a lot to ask, but I couldn't exactly go to Romanoff— with her living in Avengers Tower and all— but I'm kinda homeless."

Sharon liked to think that she was polite to her guests. In this case, however, she wasn't quite able to suppress her look of exasperation.

"I know, I know," he said quickly, raising his hands. "Just for tonight, I promise. I'll be out of your hair in the morning. It'll be like I was never here."

"Great," Sharon muttered sarcastically. "You already seem like a hallucination."

"Rough day?"

"You could say that," she echoed. She wasn't about to spill her mission details to anyone, even if that someone was Bucky Barnes. She still had _some_ creditability as a spy.

"Alright." She'd finished her dinner, so she stood up. "Let me just get the guest bedroom set up—"

"Nah, it's fine. I'll just take the couch."

Barnes stood up and left the room without even waiting for a response. Sharon stared after him, half-aware of the soup bowl that still rested in her hands. She let out a sigh and got to work washing it, wondering what it was with everyone and preferring her couch (which was fricking uncomfortable, and that was only the start) over her guest bedroom.

By the time she herself was ready for bed, Barnes still wasn't sleeping. Oh he was lying down, certainly, but that wasn't enough to fool Sharon— his back was ramrod-straight, and his breathing was just this side of shallow. She considered offering him a nightcap (she had some wine leftover from the last time Natasha was here), but ultimately decided that he probably didn't need alcohol in his system. That, or alcohol wouldn't work on him, anyway.

"Night, Barnes," she called, not missing his little flinch.

She considered locking the door to her bedroom before she went to bed, but ended up leaving it alone.

* * *

III.

It was eleven o' clock at night, and Sharon had had enough.

"Natasha," she sighed, pushing open her front door. "Please, please not tonight. I am not in the god damn mood—"

She stopped, feeling the color drain from her face.

Because yeah, the last time she saw Yelena Belova she'd been looking somewhat defeated and tired, and had taken up residence in a holding cell in Avengers Tower. Which took some of the edge off of facing her again, but there was still a residual knee-jerk reaction from their previous encounters. Sharon thought back to a crack and a blinding pain in her knee, as well as hysterical babbling while a gun was being waved in her face.

This time, however, Yelena was lounging in her armchair, looking cool as a cucumber and helping herself to a glass of water. _Figures,_ Sharon thought. She _would_ be the one to actually take something from Sharon without asking.

"You're not on my list of approved guests," she said. "In other words, get out."

Yelena raised one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. "Make me."

Very deliberately, Sharon strode over to her kitchen, took out the firearm she kept under the table, and pointed it at the intruder. "Should I repeat myself?"

Yelena raised her hands in surrender, but the smirk remained on her face. "Very good, Agent Carter. Very intimidating."

Sharon sighed, lowering the gun. She and Natasha had talked about this. They both had doubts about what sort of life Yelena would end up leading, now that the Red Room was gone. Neither of them thought she would choose the route that would lead to 'instant supervillain', but neither were they very hopeful about her choosing to do what was right. Natasha was the one who really kept tabs on Yelena. Sharon preferred to stay out of it.

So why was _she_ the one getting a late-night visit?

"What do you want?" she asked. Again, she was not in the mood for this. She'd had a bad fucking day; she was ready to just go to bed and not have to deal with all of this bullshit.

"I found out where you live," Yelena replied. "It seemed cheaper than a hotel."

Sharon blinked. She'd been expecting some kind of vague speech (Yelena had liked to say those sorts of things to her and Natasha, before), not something as simple (but still vague) as this. She still didn't lower her gun, but the pieces were coming together.

A hotel wasn't that hard to afford, at least for one night. Yelena's expression was completely closed off. She was making no move to disarm Sharon (and she could have reasonably attempted to do so, although Sharon wouldn't have made it easy for her). There were bags under her eyes, she seemed thinner, she had no weapons that Sharon could see—

"You're broke," she stated.

Yelena gave nothing else away. She continued to stare straight at Sharon, but after a few minutes of growing silence, it began to look like she wasn't really _seeing_ her anymore. Sharon (slowly) lowered her gun, moving sideways and then backwards into her bedroom. She didn't break eye contact with Yelena until she was able to slam and lock the door on her.

Ha. Like that would stop her.

That night, she laid on her bed with her hand clutching her gun, staring at her locked door. She didn't sleep.

When Sharon finally worked up the nerve to emerge from her room, Yelena was long gone.

* * *

IV.

It was on one of the better days that Sharon came home to find a teenage girl standing on the steps of her apartment building.

'Better days' meant a day where she didn't have to go on a mission, but also not one where she sat in on meeting with Hill all day. Instead, she was shadowing Pepper Potts— occasionally, she agreed to be Potts' personal bodyguard, whenever there was something going on with Stark Industries that required extra protection for its CEO. She liked Pepper— she was easy to be friendly with and offered her all sorts of stories about working for Stark.

So she was in a pretty good mood when she found the teenage girl sitting on the steps.

She blinked, because it wasn't exactly a common occurrence. She liked her building— mostly because it had a bunch of college students living in it (the ones that preferred to study instead of party), but also because there weren't any families here. If someone ever decided to come after her, for whatever reason (and that chance seemed to be getting larger, considering the visits from both Barnes and Belova) then there was no chance of a child getting caught in the crossfire.

So it was a mystery to her, why there might be a girl sitting on the steps.

She almost considered ignoring her, but something niggled the back of her mind. As she approached, the girl turned her head, and Sharon suddenly remembered.

"Hey," she said. "Does your foster family know you're here?"

The girl shook her head. "It's alright," she replied. "Their jobs require that they be out for the night. They trust me to look after myself. I'm fourteen."

Her accent had faded a lot, and Sharon couldn't help but smile at the way she puffed her chest out a bit at declaring her age. She looked so very different from the wiry, jumpy girl that Sharon had pulled out of a firefight— more relaxed, more like a normal girl. The haunted look was still there, but it was less pronounced.

"Still, you should probably be at home." Sharon fumbled with her keys. "But I guess— if it's okay with you, I'm going to call and let your foster parents know you're here."

She wasn't an idiot. She knew that the foster system wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Stark had gone to immeasurable lengths to make sure that the girls got the best care possible, but even then— maybe a family just didn't fit right. Who knew?

But the girl nodded, so evidently she liked her foster family well enough. Sharon left a voice message for the mother, letting her know that her daughter was staying with her for the night and that she was 'an associate of Mr. Stark's— you can call Maria Hill if you want to confirm.'

After she hung up the phone, she turned to the girl. "I'm just gonna order pizza for dinner. Is that okay?"

"Yes."

Once that was all squared away, and Sharon settled herself on her armchair, she got a better look at the girl.

"Hey, I don't… I'm guessing you picked out a name?"

"Ava." Once again, there was that little pinprick of pride in her eyes, one that sent warmth through Sharon. "I have not thought of a last name yet. My parents said that I can pick one if I want to, and they'll change my legal name to that. If I want to. For now, I'm using their last name."

"Any ideas on a last name?" Sharon asked.

Ava shrugged. "It seems foolish to go back, but… I would like to try to find out who my biological parents were, at some point. I'm curious. My parents say that it's okay to be curious about some of the things that happened to me, like it's okay to be angry about some of those things, too."

Her hands curled into fists. "I broke a mirror. And they bandaged my hands for me and told me it was alright, and bought a new one." Her face softened. "They are good people. Sometimes, I wonder what I am doing there."

The way she said that made Sharon want to resurrect Madame B., just so that she could punch her.

Instead, she asked, "Are you happy there?" When Ava nodded, she continued with, "Then that's why you're there. You should do what makes you happy."

"That is what I tell myself." Ava looked at her. "I came here because I… I wanted to know something. The woman— the one who helped train me in the Red Room, she… I never found out what happened to her. I never learned her name. I remembered you from the day Black Widow burned down the Red Room. I didn't want to go to Avengers Tower. I was hoping you could tell me about her?"

Sharon stared at Ava blankly, taking in her hopeful expression and pleading eyes. For a moment she was tempted— Ava had a right to know— but immediately all of the reasons why it was a bad idea flooded her mind. Yelena was still unstable at best, dangerous at worst. She was at large in the world, and probably wouldn't react well to a teenage girl coming to look for her. And Sharon had a feeling that, if Ava was able to find _her_ , then she could find Yelena as well.

She sighed heavily, moving to sit next to Ava.

"You aren't going to tell me, are you?"

Ava's quiet words startled her. Sharon smiled wryly. "No, I'm not. I'll tell you that she's alright, physically, but I can't tell you more than that. Firstly because there isn't much that I know, and secondly because I don't think it's a good idea for you to know."

"I am in her debt." Ava looked down at her lap. "I am in yours as well. And the Widow's."

"She'd appreciate you calling her Natasha." Sharon shook herself— that wasn't what was important. "At any rate, you don't owe either of us anything. As far as I'm concerned, there's no debt at all. I know that Natasha would say the same."

"And the woman?"

Sharon bit her lip. She didn't know how to tell Ava that she had no idea how Yelena felt about her, about whether or not she believed Ava owed her anything. Yelena may have saved her life, but she never tried to get her away from that hellhole. She never felt motivated to save Ava from the same fate as Natasha, as herself. But even with all of that, Sharon knew that it wasn't that simple.

There had to be a reason why Yelena chose to protect Ava. Sharon probably wasn't going to know what it was.

"She's a dangerous woman," was what she settled on. And that was that. There was a tentative acceptance in Ava's nod.

Sharon put on Mean Girls for the rest of the evening, which Ava quickly became engrossed in. Sharon was relieved that there was no more conversation; Ava had the kind of intense scrutiny that only a few people that Sharon knew possessed. Natasha was one, certainly, as well as Nick and (oddly enough) Pepper. Coming from a 14 year old girl, it was intimidating.

Ava didn't share her opinion of the movie after it finished. Sharon went to the linen closet, intent on setting up the guest room, but when she went back into the living room it was to find Ava already asleep, her head resting on the couch arm and her body curled into a tight ball.

Sharon recognized that position from the way the girls slept after they'd first been rescued: twisted in on themselves, like they were expecting a blow to come while they rested and were hoping to protect their vital organs. Sharon carefully laid the blanket over Ava, relieved when her forehead came unwrinkled at the gesture, and then turned out the lights.

Ava was still there in the morning; Sharon woke first, and made a poor attempt at pancakes. She noticed that, sometime during the night, Ava had relaxed and stretched her legs out along the length of the couch.

Ava's mother came to pick her up, she shook Sharon's hand and smiled. "Thank you for calling. And thank you for looking after her."

"It was the least I could do."

Before Ava could leave, Sharon slipped her a piece of paper. On it was her phone number and a short note.

 _If you ever need to talk._

* * *

V.

The first time that Sharon was invited to one of the Avengers' 'parties', she almost didn't want to go. No, scratch that— she definitely didn't want to go. Parties made her nervous by default, and a party full of Avengers sounded worse. In spite of that, she was told that it would be a small gathering (Avengers, significant others and close friends). That resulted in there being between ten and twenty people there. She could handle that.

There was also the fact that Natasha called a few days beforehand. "I know that Tony invited you."

"I thought we agreed that I wouldn't be pressured into non-essential social gatherings?"

"We did?" It was only implied, in truth, so of course Natasha had to be an asshole about it. "I promise, this isn't one of Stark's big galas. And no, it isn't an attempt to set you up with Steve, although if you two hook up then that _is_ a bonus—"

"Let me stop you right there," Sharon said, holding up a hand even though Natasha couldn't see it. "If it's not a big gala, then I'll go." She did have some interest in getting to know the rest of the Avengers— the people that Natasha considered friends, a team, a group to mesh with. She liked Steve well enough, and the man had enough surprise snark in him to keep her invested in a conversation. She wanted to get to know the rest of them as well.

Thus, she found herself wearing a party dress and riding up the elevator to the penthouse of Stark Tower, feeling nervous (but not enough to run back to her apartment). She stepped out onto the landing to the sight of only four others there— Tony Stark, looking surprisingly sober, Pepper, Colonel Rhodes, and Dr. Banner.

"Carter!" Tony exclaimed. "You made it. I wasn't sure— Romanoff wouldn't say a word on your party habits."

"Not much of a partier," Sharon said.

Tony shrugged and jerked his head towards Banner. "Member number one of the mellow club is already here."

Said member shook his head with a long-suffering sigh, but it seemed that the mellow club wasn't the place for him that night, because he quickly became involved in an argument with Tony about the ethics of nuclear engineering. Sharon gravitated over to Pepper, relieved that someone she knew was there, and was able to start up an easy conversation. She was formally introduced to Colonel Rhodes, who enjoyed bad jokes a little too much but was otherwise a nice guy.

The rest of the partygoers trickled in little-by-little— Thor and Dr. Foster arrived at the same time. Natasha came shortly after, dressed like a punk (which apparently surprised everyone except Sharon— that had been Natasha's choice of outfit on several of their outings). Everyone else showed up within twenty minutes of each other.

Sharon bounced around between conversations; it was surprisingly easy to get over any awe she felt about the Avengers. She had about three glasses of wine and was feeling comfortable when something caught her eye.

Natasha was talking to Banner, separate from the rest. There was something about her posture that Sharon thought she recognized. Then Banner said something that made Natasha throw her head back and cackle, which only made Sharon stare even more. She was distracted by Dr. Foster asking her question, and she momentarily forgot about it.

Eventually she could only take so much talking, so she excused herself and went out onto the terrace. New York would never be quiet, but it was pretty damn close all the way up here. Her thoughts went back to her darkened apartment with its seldom-used guestroom, and the way Natasha had looked when she was talking to Banner, and Steve's pain when they had briefly touched on the topic of her aunt.

She didn't turn around when the door opened behind her, already knowing who it was.

"Never took you for the 'brooding on rooftops' type," Natasha said.

Sharon snorted. "You're one to talk, for all the brooding you did in Europe."

Natasha smirked, resting her arms on the railing next to her. She looked happy, Sharon realized— really, truly happy, like Natasha had finally found somewhere that she belonged. Sharon knew her well enough to know that Natasha would never completely throw off her burdens, but she figured that this was about as close as she was going to get.

"This was nice," she said.

"Yeah."

"But I think I might head home."

"Okay," Natasha replied. "I'll see you in a week— mission tomorrow, right?"

Sharon didn't question how Natasha knew her schedule. "Uh-huh. Sorry for ditching you, but you seem to be managing just fine on your own. By which I mean that you can actually talk to them for extended periods of time."

"Yeah, yeah," Natasha said. "I won't make you endure 'conversation exhaustion' any longer."

Sharon left quietly, slipping along the edge of the room. It struck her that these people wouldn't expect her to say goodbye, nor would they be insulted that she hadn't. This was probably the most non-judgmental group that she'd spent time with in a while. It was refreshing. She could easily do it again.

She noticed, just before the elevator doors closed, that Natasha had gone back to her conversation with Dr. Banner.

Five hours later, she startled awake because she _knew_ that someone was in the room with her.

"Relax," said the darkened silhouette. "It's just me."

Sharon grumbled and turned her lamp on, revealing Natasha (still in her punk clothes) standing at the edge of her bed. She glared at her friend, but froze when she saw the grim look on her face.

"You have a visitor," she said.

" _You're_ a visitor." Sharon didn't care that her words were clipped; she was tired, god damn it. Even so, she got out of bed and followed Natasha to the living room with some trepidation. What would it be this time— Belova, again? A Hydra agent? Loki?

The body draped over the couch was instantly recognizable from the metal arm hanging over the edge.

Sharon swore.

"Has he been here before?" Natasha asked.

"Broke in one other time," Sharon explained. "Slept on my couch. I don't know what the hell he was doing here then, and I don't know why he's here now. I also don't know why no one ever wants to sleep in the guest bedroom."

That prompted a chuckle from Natasha. She cast an assessing gaze over Barnes. "He didn't do anything last time?"

"No. It was fine."

"I'm still staying over." Sharon wasn't impressed, and the look she gave Natasha communicated that, but Natasha ignored it. "And don't worry, I'll sleep in the guest bedroom. Go back to bed."

"Natasha."

Natasha had already turned away, but she paused, turning her head slightly to show that she was listening. Sharon folded her arms and planted her feet in what Aunt Peggy used to say was her 'stubborn stance'.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

Natasha turned around. She stared at Sharon with a blank look that Sharon recognized; she tilted her chin up higher and stared right back, unwilling to back down. Natasha was the first to back down, taking a small step towards her.

"I wanted to talk," she admitted. "But it's… we can talk in the morning."

"Would it be easier to talk about it now?"

"I don't know."

Sighing, Sharon stepped forward and rested a hand on Natasha's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Nat."

The next morning, Sharon was up early (her departure time was moved up at the last minute). Barnes was awake, flipping through news channels with the sound off. He'd pulled his hair into a ponytail and (in spite of the fact that he seemed to be really sleeping) still had the look of someone who hadn't slept for days.

"Natasha's here," Sharon told him. "So you can stay for a bit after I leave, if you want."

He shook his head. "Not planning on sticking around long," he replied hoarsely.

Sharon shrugged, and went into the kitchen to get breakfast.

When she returned to the living room, it was to find Barnes and Natasha speaking in Russian. Natasha looked better— less jittery, like she had been the previous night. She turned her head when Sharon entered, smiling.

"The guest room was nice," she said. Her smile morphed into a grin. "But I like the couch better."

Sharon threw her hands up in the air. Barnes nodded seriously. "It's a nice couch."

She wasn't going to win this one, and she knew it. Sharon sat on her armchair, angling her body towards Natasha's. "So," she began. "What did you want to talk about?"

* * *

+I.

Sharon's missions had been fairly smooth since joining Stark Industries. They were usually low-profile, quick missions that involved minimal risk. This was supposed to be one of those missions, but it went sideways so fast that Sharon felt like the ground had been ripped out from underneath her feet.

Literally.

She'd been running through a half-finished office complex, having been made while staking out a black-market weapons transaction. Things were still under control— the perpetrators were chasing her with guns out while she led them along a path that would hopefully end with them trapped— when there was a jolt that threw her face-first into the ground.

Sharon rolled, and rolled, until there was nothing left for her to roll on but air. She stared as she passed by the third, second, and first floors of the building, before there was a moment of blinding pain and then darkness.

She woke up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. Her entire body ached, and when she tried to move one of her arms she had to bite back a grimace. There was an IV next to the bed, hooked up to her arm. Her mouth felt like sandpaper. The rest of her body felt like it had been run over by a truck.

"You fell four stories. You hit your head twice in the process, broke five ribs, your left arm, and several fingers on that arm. Your concussion isn't severe, but that's a miracle in and of itself."

Dr. Banner was reading off her injuries like a shopping list, but Sharon appreciated his straightforwardness. He wasn't looking at her, but instead at the clipboard that he held. Once he was finished with that, he put it aside and looked at her.

"Natasha insisted we keep you in her apartment," he told her. "All of our apartments our outfitted with standard medical equipment, so we can set up a makeshift hospital room instead of having to keep patients in the infirmary. She didn't… she didn't take it too well, when they brought you back on the quinjet."

Bruce paused. "Jarvis was supposed to notify her. She should be on her way."

"Thanks, Dr. Banner," Sharon croaked. Damn, but she hadn't been hit this badly since… well, since Yelena.

Right on cue, the door opened and Natasha strode in, eyes only on Sharon. She did pause next to Bruce, murmuring something to him, but then she made her way over and sat on the edge of her bed. Wordlessly she helped Sharon into more of a sitting position, without jostling her arm too badly.

"How long?" Sharon asked.

"You were out for two days." Natasha looked down at her lap. "Bruce says that he estimates your recovery time will be at least four weeks, if not longer. You're staying here for the first two, then we can move back to your apartment."

Her tone brooked no argument, and Sharon wasn't in much of a mood to protest anyway. "Thank you."

One of the corners of Natasha's mouth lifted.

"Don't worry," she said more lightly, jerking her head over to the TV on the wall. "I have Netflix. We can binge watch Parks and Recreation or something. I'll stuff you full of popcorn."

Sharon smiled a bit, lifting her good arm to wave at Natasha when she slipped out of the room to let her sleep. Four weeks of bed rest could be a hell of a lot worse, in retrospect.


End file.
